08:43am
by sweetieurie
Summary: I didn't look up to see him turn back and look at me with nothing but heartbreak radiating from his big brown eyes, or the way his hand reached ever so slightly in my direction. I didn't look up to see the way it grasped at the air looking for another to hold, before falling back down hopelessly. (art teacher!gerard, student!frank)


He was obviously pretty flustered as he came bustling past the rows of desks, his jet-black hair messed up, a few strands sticking to his forehead. His tie was askew, but he didn't seem to notice as he quickly checked the clock before closing his eyes briefly; he embodied every single feeling the first day back at school always dragged with it. I watched intently as he took a long sip of coffee from a polystyrene cup, and then scanned the room briefly, a look of excited anticipation set on his ever-so-slightly flushed face.

"Hey guys, sorry I'm late, though I'm sure that hasn't been a problem for you on your first day back. You kids probably need all the power-naps you can get, right?"

He was answered with a dull groan from the majority, a couple of mumbled agreements coming from the back corners of the dreary-looking art room. He looked like a teenager himself- a slightly stronger bone structure, a couple of faint wrinkles- but otherwise pretty young-looking. Pretty fucking beautiful, too.

08:43 am. That was when we first made eye-contact. It probably lasted around 2.5 seconds, but those seconds were fucking wonderful. He sat cautiously on his desk, waiting a moment to see if it would collapse before shrugging and clearing his throat.

"So, I'm Mr Way. You can all call me Gerard, whatever you feel more comfortable with, I'm pretty laid back so I don't really give a shit about formalities." That earned an appreciative chuckle from the class. "Your previous teacher told me roughly what you've all been taught recently,"

another scan of the semi-awake faces staring back at him, a clearing of the throat, a sip of coffee,

"so I've based my first lesson on that. I just want you guys to pick up from where you left off and get these pieces done by the end of our third week, that cool?"

The class nodded, a few relieved smiles spreading on the faces of the more stressed-out students, evidently grateful for the extra time. I was close to finishing my sketch, and I mentally ran over the list of things I needed to add to it before briefly noting them on a scrap piece of paper laying on the paint-stained desk.

"So where did you come from, Mr Way?" A girl at the front of the class flirted. I resisted rolling my eyes, only to laugh inwardly when our teacher rolled his own.

"Ah, wouldn't you like to know." he answered dismissively, waving a hand with a smirk as he put a paintbrush between his teeth and started sketching in a book that rested on his knee.

I thought about that answer for the first twenty minutes of the class: _Was he just a private person or was he flirting back? He was probably really fucking interesting. That would kill me more than the second option; harbouring a crush on a teacher is bad enough, but add an interesting personality to that and you're fucked. I wonder where he transferred from...he did have a slight Jersey accent, so maybe he'd actually been here a while. Maybe I've passed him on the street before. Maybe our paths had crossed previously, but surely I'd remember a face like that? Christ, it's a fucking masterpiece, of course I would._

My thoughts were interrupted when I heard a vibrant laugh ring out in the spacious room. I glanced up from my work to see him perched on the desk of some of the students, clearly amused by something one of them had said. I failed to ignore the twinge of jealousy in the pit of my stomach caused by the speed in which the other kids were already getting to know our new teacher. _Fuck 'em, I'll get my turn._

"So do you get a lot of chicks for it?" one of the guys asked, waggling his eyebrows suggestively. Mr Way smirked, tapping his nose. What were they talking about? Was he part of some weird sex trade? Why was he getting girls? I mean, besides his remarkable appearance and apparent charming nature, what made him so desirable?

"Being in a band isn't about getting laid, Jack." Mr Way stated, putting that damn paintbrush back between his teeth as he continued to draw, his speech slightly hard to understand, "It's about playing music and seeing the effect it has on people."

I felt my heart swell, the sentimentality of the statement was evident in the way his brows furrowed with underlying frustration. He was clearly trying to remain polite, probably wanting to educate the dumb kid on the meaning behind lyrics and the work and feeling put into a performance, and I couldn't help but respect him for that. If somebody cheapened the prospect of performing music like that in my company I'd go fucking mental. Music isn't all about sleeping with people and getting money.

"Music isn't about sleeping around and rolling in money, man. It takes a lot to be a musician."

Well, Mr Way, you took the words right out of my mouth.

"It's hard work. You know, there are a lot of people that don't appreciate how exhausting it is, but I guess it's worth it when you enjoy it as much as I do."

"So how do you find time to be an art teacher? Why aren't you just playing gigs every day?" a shyer girl asked. I was surprised, I'd never heard her talk in my life. Our new teacher's youthful, down-to-earth nature must have made her feel at ease, I could sense how much more relaxed the classroom felt within the first five minutes of being in his presence.

He laughed abruptly, startling me slightly. "I'd be broke! Plus I love art, and I love teaching. I think being an art teacher is an interesting thing. You can't teach somebody how to be good at art, you can only help them to improve their craft and create a piece that makes people think by learning about the artist and then helping them...vomit their emotions onto paper."

I chuckled quietly at the vivid image that gave me. He was right, though. Art is about making people think, not just creating something that looks pretty.

"If you wanna make something that is _aesthetically pleasing," _he said in a mocking tone, "fuck off to the baking class down the hall."

The class burst into laughter. Since when do teachers swear? I could feel my attraction to the man multiplying by the second. He was so fucking rad? The teachers I've had previously probably got off to dusty textbooks and the smell of chalk. This guy was something different.

I continued with my sketch, adding shadows to the cheekbones of the fictional character on the paper, making her expression slightly more sinister. She never had a sinister side in my head, but I liked to draw her so that she looked like some kind of super-villian. I wanted her to have a story, but I wasn't some genius comic-book writer so I could never do her justice.

"Hey, what's your name?" my head shot up so fast I almost fucking broke my neck. I didn't even notice him come over.

"Frank," I cleared my throat and felt the corner of my mouth quirk up into a half smile. I looked at him for a few seconds in awkward silence, the first thing I thought of coming out of my mouth before I could really process it.

"I overheard that you're in a band...so am I. What kinda stuff do you play?"

His eyes lit up at the fact that there was another musician in the room, his excited smile taking over his beautiful fucking lips that I now couldn't take my eyes off. Nice one, asshole.

"Oh, God, I mean I don't even know myself. Rock, metal, punk, whatever, it's pretty intense, pretty dark...theatrical. What about you?"

I nodded, grinning "That sounds interesting, I'd love to hear it! Uh, I play like, everything. I'm the same in the way I can't really pick a specific genre. My solo stuff is mainly like, alternative punk stuff but then when I'm with the band it's a little heavier." My eyes flitted down to my paper self-consciously, realising I was rambling. Oh god, my sweaty hands were smudging my drawing, fucking hell, _please don't look, please don't look, please don't look._

"Dude, that sounds so cool! You look like a you play punky music. I mean, I don't know, I just get that from you." he shrugged, laughing slightly and looking down, I didn't miss the way his eyes grazed over my lip ring. "Hey, let's see your sketch so far, haven't you started painting yet?"

He gently tugged at the paper, forcing me to lift my hands.

"I've done a few...I mean this is my third. The other two just didn't look that good, they were better in my head." He was obviously kindly ignoring the fact that my paper was sweating.

He nodded understandingly. "Yeah, I get that all the time, don't sweat it."

Oh my god, _was he taking the piss? Am I being paranoid? Fucking hell._

"Hey, this is amazing though! You're really talented, kid."

I blushed slightly, looking away. "Thank you, I wasn't sure if it was, but thanks."

He placed my paper back on the table nodding reassuringly.

"It's great. You wanna see mine?"

I nodded happily, excited to add 'talented' to the list of his qualities already piling up in my brain.

He opened his sketch book and I was almost blinded by the vibrant-coloured comics that graced each page.

"Holy shit," I murmured subconsciously, earning a giggle from my teacher.

"You like it?"

I looked up to meet his gaze. He was chewing on his lip in anticipation for my answer, his big, gorgeous eyes blinking questioningly. _Fucking hell, he looks like a fucking angel and I cannot fucking cope what the fuck is this he's a fucking teacher and I just want to fuck him over this desk right fucking now._

Breathe.

"Y-yeah," good start, asshole. "you're an incredible artist, these are amazing."

He blushed slightly at that, scratching the back of his neck. _Fucking blushed._

"Thanks...if music doesn't work out for me then I'll probably write and illustrate my own comics for a living."

"Yeah, that's really cool. I'm sure your music will work out though. What do you play?"

"Oh, I'm the front man."

_Oh...shit. That's hot. That's really, really hot._

"I love it. I love performing my own lyrics and just going crazy on stage. It's so much fun!"

"Yeah, it is, I know what you mean." I replied, getting what he meant completely.

He grinned, nodding. I grinned back, wondering if he was going to speak or if I was supposed to carry on the conversation.

"Well, I'll let you carry on with your drawing. It's been cool talking to you."

_Please don't leave, you're fucking perfect._

"Yeah, you too."

As he walked back to his desk at the front of the classroom I was left with a heated face and the lingering scent of cigarettes.

* * *

The autumnal months passed in a blur of getting pieces done and having talks with Mr Way about the areas in which we were struggling and how he could help. Everybody adored him and my love for him continued to increase by the day. We had formed a pretty good friendship between the two of us, despite the fact that he was around twice my age. (That was an exaggeration. I sneakily found out that he was only 28 from overhearing a conversation with one of my other teachers, making him only 11 years older than me. Nice.)

Lots of the pupils teased me light-heartedly, calling me his "favourite" and "teachers pet", and he continued to laugh it off, subtly winking at me when they weren't looking. I loved that we had bonded so easily over our love for music and similar world views. Sometimes when I had nothing to do at break times I would find myself in his classroom helping him do little jobs and talking about anything and everything that came into our heads. We just got each other, I guess. It wasn't some weird thing between us that people were suspicious about or anything, we just had a very similar way of thinking.

It was a cold, rainy Thursday morning. I arrived at school later than usual due to oversleeping and because I was late I couldn't have breakfast and I hadn't printed my essays for English literature and I would probably receive a bollocking from my teacher as I hadn't handed in any work for over a week. I was so fucking busy and stressed out and to be honest, anything anybody said to me went in one year and out the other. It was the middle of December and to be quite fucking honest I was more than ready to break up for Christmas and hibernate until the 25th; my essays could go fuck themselves.

I was just rushing to my first lesson (late) when one of those typical movie moments happened. Of course, Mr fucking Way came hurtling round the corner with a flask of coffee and a pile of sketchbooks and smashed into me, both of us ending up on our asses.

"Shit, I'm so sorry!" He began, quickly getting to his feet before offering me his hand, "Oh, it's only you," wow, charming.

"Oh, thanks, Sir! Good morning to you too!" I muttered sarcastically, a smile emerging from my mask of false irritation.

He smiled apologetically. "You know what I mean, you don't give a shit, it could've been the principal, you know?"

"Yeah, yeah, whatever. Anyway, have a good day, Mr Way!"

He snickered, shaking his head.

"What?!" I asked, suddenly embarrassed. Was I overstepping? No! I was just being polite.

"Nothing, that just rhymed. Could be your next song, huh?" He winked, laughing to himself, finding himself fucking hilarious, as always.

"Idiot," I muttered, knowing he would pull his teacher shit on me just to scare me.

"Hey, I could give you a detention for that, young man."

Holy shit, I should _not_ be turned on by that. Fucking _hell._

"You wouldn't... I'm _your favourite_." I replied, air quoting the last two words.

His laughter echoed in the deserted corridor. "Yeah, whatever, get to lessons, punk."

I turned away from him, calling a "Yes, Sir!" over my shoulder, biting my lip and squeezing my eyes shut to stop myself from squealing or something equally as lame.

I could not go on like this, _pull yourself together, stupid fucker._

The fact that he had so much trust in me made my crush ten times worse. I felt like I was taking advantage of him or something. He was so genuine and actually gave a shit about me and listened to my pointless rants and dumb stories- he even shared his own- and I was lucky to have the companionship I had with him, so many kids wanted to be his best friend and to be honest, I sort of was.

Whatever. What he doesn't know won't hurt him.

* * *

"So, can I listen to your band yet?"

It was one of those boring free periods where I holed up in Mr Way's classroom to do work in a nice, peaceful environment. As much as I had to do, I always found a way to distract myself from the mountain of essay questions that seemed to build and build each time I looked at it.

"I said no! I've said no I don't know how many times now." He walked to the other side of the room, rinsing paintbrushes under the tap slightly aggressively.

"Why not though? It's not like I'll laugh or anything. It's the type of music I listen to," I whined. I was so desperate to hear this man's lyrics and his singing voice that I would do absolutely anything I could to make him play me something. "I'll do extra work! I'll...help you clean? I'll do anything!"

"Anything, huh?" he said a tad suggestively with one eyebrow raised as he turned to look at me. Suggestively? Maybe I was just being optimistic.

"Yes! Anything!"

"Awesome. Play me one of your songs."

What a little shit.

I groaned in annoyance, folding my arms on the tabletop and letting my head fall onto them dramatically. "Why do you have to make things so difficult, Mr Way? _Whyyyyyyy_?"

He laughed at that, a carefree laugh that made me smile no matter how hard I tried to stay annoyed at him.

"It's in my nature; Aries, remember?"

That was true, he was incredibly stubborn. One of the many things we had in common was our secret interest and hand-on-heart belief in star signs. I was a Scorpio, which meant that we were supposed to hate each other, however that was one thing we decided to let slide.

"I suppose." I sighed, getting up to help him scrub the dirty paintbrushes left by eager year sevens with no consideration for the poor people that had to clean up after them. Usually us.

"What are your opinions on red hair? Like...apple red?"

I blinked at him questioningly. "You thinking of having a change? What's wrong with black?"

"I don't know, it's kinda dull. And I mean, I don't wanna look like a troubled teen forever, y'know? I was just thinking it's a little more festive, a little more...artistic, even." his head was cocked to one side as his nose crinkled in thought, his eyes slightly narrowed as he tried to picture in his mind what it would look like.

"I think you'd suit it. You've got one of those faces that would suit any colour, y'know?"

_Oh my god, what the fuck. Why the fuck did I just say that?_

"I do? Thanks I guess." He looked at me then, pausing his paintbrush-washing, an appreciative smile spreading across his wind-chapped lips.

I laughed awkwardly. "You're welcome. So anyway, what have you uh...asked for for Christmas?"

He didn't seem to notice the abrupt change in subject.

"Uh...well my parents usually give me money, my brother usually just buys me things that he finds funny. I'm the sentimental one, believe it or not. Nothing from my wife or kids." He then pretended to cry, shaking his shoulders and jutting out his lip as he sniffled loudly.

"Shut up, you don't have a wife or kids." I laughed, swatting his arm with a wet brush.

"Hey! Quit reminding me, okay?" He tried to frown but the corners of his mouth twitched up slightly. He decided on the most mature of actions, poking his tongue out and turning his back to me.

I ignored him, knowing that he would eventually give up this stupid charade (I found it absolutely adorable, nonetheless) and continued to rinse all of the brushes until they were done. The bell rang loudly to signal the end of fourth period and the beginning of lunch, and so I dried my hands, shouldered my bag and said my goodbyes.

"You can't sulk forever, Way." I called behind me, and I heard a quiet chuckle as the door swung shut behind me.

* * *

I hadn't played a gig in a long time, purely due to my excessive school work and inability to make the connections I needed in order to play local venues. I was lucky, however, when a kid at school messaged me the previous week saying they needed a band to play at a small gig twenty minutes away from my house for a charity show. I was eager to accept the invitation, and quickly called a band practise to run over a few of our rather shitty songs.

I arrived at the venue ten minutes before I was due to go on stage, missing sound check because my stupid fucking car wouldn't start. I was met with the strong scent of sweat and smoke, the heaving crowd being a welcome sight as I anticipated maybe twenty, thirty people at most. I caught the last couple of songs of the previous band's set as my band and I downed a shot each before we went on.

"Hi everyone. Uh, I'm Frank and we're Pencey Prep. This is a song I wrote a couple of weeks back, I hope you like it." As I looked out to the crowd I saw over a hundred inquisitive faces looking back at me, the unfamiliarity of each person there making me feel a sense of excitement.

When it got to the third song I sipped from my water quickly, returning to the microphone with a smile. "Okay, so this song is a little slower, I'm sorry" I laughed at the groan I received when I realised that the majority were only kidding by the fond looks on their faces. "Anyway, I hope it doesn't bore you too much." As I took in the audience for the hundredth time, I spotted somebody new. He had bright red hair and familiar brown eyes with a cigarette dangling lazily from his grinning lips. He nodded subtly in greeting, swaying to the music. His eyes fell shut when I started to sing, and I couldn't help but feel like my heart was about to burst. I didn't give a fuck why he was here, but the fact that he was made everything so, so much better. The whole situation felt surreal. He looked at me in a way I had never seen before, or maybe never noticed. He looked so dazed and his smile never faltered, only grew every time my eyes drifted back to his.

I played one more song distractedly but well enough to receive an ecstatic reaction from the audience, and I didn't see anybody else in the room as I made my way over to my art teacher, flinging my arms around his neck and loving the way it felt to have him smiling into my hair.

"YOU WERE SO GOOD! I CAN'T BELIEVE HOW GOOD YOU WERE!" he shouted over the deafening sound of the thumping music that played whilst the next band set up. "EVERY SINGLE SONG WAS DIFFERENT AND UNIQUE AND JUST SO...SPECIAL. YOU'RE SO FUCKING SPECIAL, MAN!" he laughed hysterically, slightly drunk but genuinely elated and I couldn't find words to reply with.

"THANK YOU...THANK YOU! WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?"

He didn't reply, but simply laughed giddily and patted my shoulder, running up to the side of the stage and taking the microphone in his hand.

_No way no fucking way oh my god no fucking way is he about to...oh my god he is oh my fucking god this is it this is literally it!_

"Hey Guys! How good was Frankie just then? How fucking awesome was he?!" He laughed madly as the audience whistled, clapped and whooped appreciatively.

"We are 'My Chemical Romance' and I hope we can make you get a little crazy."

I laughed to myself, covering my mouth in shock. He looked so at ease. So...so belonging... like the stage was his home and anywhere else did him no justice whatsoever.

"In the middle of a gunfight...in the centre of a restaurant, they say "come with you arms raised high.""

Nice voice...really, really nice voice. Really really _really_ nice- _shit_.

"I kiss your lips again..." he licked his lips, searching the crowd until his eyes locked with mine, and he let his hand trail down his thigh as he bit his lip and winked before continuing.

Oh my god. Oh my fucking god his voice was sex and beauty and all things worth living for in this world. I was melting and this man was completely and utterly to blame.

As the song continued so did my rapidly increasing lust for the guy. Every single word and note and chord progression and harmony and holy fucking shit was this man talented.

"Okay so this song is pretty depressing. It's called 'I'm Not Okay', and it's fucking sad but we couldn't not play it."

The piano intro started and when Mr Way started singing a whole new atmosphere filled the room. It was evident that he was pouring his heart into every single lyric. When he finished the song I was visibly shaking. I was completely overwhelmed with an emotion I couldn't even identify. Intense sympathy? Empathy, even? Sadness that somebody so beautiful seemed to be in so much pain?

"Okay so after these two songs we'll have one more, guys, one more." he took a deep breath in and shook himself slightly as if to shake off the previous emotions from the song. "This one's called 'Thank You For The Venom'".

The song was so much fun, and I honestly adored it, but I could barely focus on it when I couldn't stop staring at the man singing it. He looked so _alive. _I'd never seen him look so happy to be living, it looked like electricity was running through his veins, his eyes were wide and communicative, his theatricality making him so different to any other front man of any other band I'd ever seen before.

When the final song 'Teenagers' rolled around I couldn't help but join the audience in dancing. I was certain the song was inspired by a conversation we'd had a couple of weeks back, and he had captured the entire essence of youth in one song. It was incredible, I loved it, absolutely loved it. I looked up to the stage to find him watching me, a huge grin on his face. He was probably amused by my dancing, nothing more, but I couldn't resist beaming back up at him.

"Well everyone, I hope we showed you a good fucking time, you're all wonderful. We were 'My Chemical Romance'! Thank you!" he stepped away from the microphone and downed two shots handed to him by audience members on his way over to me. As he came closer I could do nothing but stare at him, wide-eyed and open-mouthed. He reached for my sweating hand with his matching sweating hand and guided me over to the bar, ordering four more shots. He slid two over to me wordlessly, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

"Go on. I dare you."

I downed them both in about five seconds, flinching as my throat burned. He laughed at my face, downing both of his before pulling a face that was probably the mirror image of mine. He stumbled slightly, laughing maniacally and accepting a blunt that was passed to him by (I think) one of his band members.

As he inhaled deeply, he maintained eye-contact with me, and when he leaned in I completely froze. He paused inches away from my lips and looked at me as though I was missing something obvious. I opened my mouth to speak and as I did he closed the distance, exhaling the smoke into my mouth.

_Oh, that's what he was doing._

I shivered at the intimacy, his lips still pressed against mine as light as feathers. My eyes fell shut and I blew the smoke back into his mouth. I then opened my eyes slowly to find him staring back at me, smoke flowing from his mouth and dancing in the air between us. His pupils were dilated and he looked a tad stoned, but Christ, did he look beautiful.

"I'm so not thinking straight right now," he murmured, letting his fingers trace patterns on the skin of my arm. "I think...I think you're really really good and that we...we should...do something together some time." he giggled, falling into me a little.

My heart raced.

"What, like...play some music?" I questioned, wanting to clarify that he wasn't suggesting what I thought (hoped) he was suggesting.

"Yeah, that too!" he spluttered, taking another drag of his blunt.

"Hey, isn't this the kid you teach, Gerard?" a guy with extremely bushy hair asked, tapping my teacher's shoulder impatiently. Mr Way stumbled into him, laughing.

"Why you gotta kill it, man? Whyyyyyyyyyyyyyy?"

The guy looked at me sceptically. "I think you should go home, kid."

My heart sank. I knew that this could no way be happening to me. Something, of course, had to ruin it.

"No! No, he's with me, he's fiiiiine." Mr Way assured him, shrugging him off.

"No he's not, I'll take you home, little dude."

I frowned at him, appreciating his sensibility but definitely not the fact that my beautiful, kind, caring, attentive, talented-beyond-belief teacher that I was fucking _in love with _was heavily intoxicated and getting me high by pressing his lips to mine was going to be abandoned by me if this guy made me leave.

Mr Way pouted and poked my arm gently. He then pulled me to his chest and kissed my hair, rubbing my back soothingly. "You were incredible tonight. I'm really, really fucking proud of you, sweetheart."

I smiled against his chest before pulling back and looking at him. "You were honestly absolutely amazing and I can't believe you spend your life rinsing paint brushes and teaching mindless teenagers how to use a pencil."

He laughed, squeezing my hand.

I watched as his smile faded from his face and was replaced by a more serious expression.

"You look great."

I hesitated, taking in a sharp breath.

"You too."

I let go of his hand, swallowing thickly as I broke eye-contact and followed the man with the fuzzy hair out to the cab.

* * *

"Okay, who isn't here today, guys?"

He looked more tired than usual, the bags under his eyes more prominent like he didn't sleep at all the previous night. Who knew how long he stayed after I left; he's an adult, I mean, maybe he stayed all night, fucking pretty girls, maybe a couple of guys...

"Frank, you alright man?" the guy next to me nudged me roughly with his shoulder, a smirk playing on his features.

"Yeah, whatever."

He pulled a face that said "_Why the fuck do I ever even bother with you, asshole?"_ before turning away and striking up a conversation with a couple of boys on the neighbouring table. I wasn't in the mood today. Mr Way hadn't looked at me once since I entered the room and it was stressing me the fuck out. Did he remember? Did the afro dude tell him? Does he regret it? Wait, regret what?

_Nothing. Fucking. Happened._

I need to get that into my head. What was _something _ to me was probably nothing to him. Just because I'm a seventeen-year-old virgin I kept forgetting that he's probably had sex like a hundred times already. He's hot, he's 28, he's...he's different. Special. Stunning.

"Mr Iero, can I talk to you?"

_Here we fucking go._

To my disgust, the class "_ooooooo_"ed, making my face heat up. As I made my way over I didn't break eye-contact with him once, not even when I tripped over somebody's bag and an amused look flashed across his face for half a second before it was gone.

"I think you should think about changing classes."

_What?_

"What? Why?! Did I do something wrong?"

He shifted uncomfortably but rolled his eyes in that familiar obnoxious way that he always does.

"Don't play dumb, Frank, Ray told me what happened. It's not acceptable and I don't feel comfortable teaching you any more. It isn't right. Surely you can understand that?"

"Actually, I can't." I was surprised at my own abrupt reply, watching him blink rapidly, his eyes wide. He licked his lips and opened his mouth slightly to speak, but I interjected. "You made me want to do art. At first I took it so that I had like, 6 periods a week to piss around and catch up on sleep, but you walked in and fucking changed my mind within an hour."

He clearly didn't know what to say to that, he just looked at me, mouth opening and closing like he was forming the words in his head but they wouldn't come out. I noticed that the class had quietened down drastically. Nosy fuckers.

I continued in a hushed tone. "Please don't make me change classes. I understand you were drinking and you...y'know, drink makes people act differently, so I'm not holding anything against you, alright?"

He took a deep breath, closing his eyes and rubbing a hand over his face. "I don't know."

A pause.

"What do you mean you don't know?"

"This has never happened before."

"What's never happened before?"

Another pause. He uncrossed his legs. Then he switched them, crossing his left over his right instead, letting them dangle over the desk a couple of inches off the floor.

"You know what. I've never been this close with a pupil before."

I cleared my throat uncomfortably, anxious that people would overhear. "So? That doesn't matter."

"It doesn't matter?"

"No, why would it? It won't happen again. You're my teacher, no one ever said we can't be friends too."

His eyebrows furrowed. He looked at his hands for what seemed like a long while before looking back up at me slowly through a few strands of cherry-red hair. "What happened didn't make you feel...uncomfortable ? _I_ don't make you feel uncomfortable?"

I scoffed at that. "What?! No, not at all."

The smallest of smiles tugged at the corners of his lips. "So...we're cool?"

I laughed under my breath, rolling my eyes fondly. What a fucking dork. "Yeah, we're cool."

* * *

I didn't think it was going to be that easy. In fact, it was kind of unnerving how simple the whole situation was. He acted totally normal for the rest of the lesson, chatting with everyone but ended up sitting with me, talking about current affairs and giving me suggestions on what to do with my piece, what colours to use, etcetera. He was smart, really, really smart, and I was just waiting for the day to ask him the big question.

Oh yes.

I was waiting to ask him if he would write a comic strip based on my character.

Now wasn't the time. Our relationship at the moment was still fragile, so I continued to play his game, acting as though just twelve hours ago we weren't pressed together in a sweaty, heaving club. The memory of him pressing his warm, dry lips to mine replayed in my mind every time my gaze found his mouth. I subconsciously tongued my lip ring, and I watched as his pupils ever so slightly dilated, his eyes finding my lips and watching them intently.

I stopped what I was doing, swallowing and looking down at the table.

He cleared his throat.

I grinned smugly.

He frowned. He walked away.

I went up to his room at break time to find the room locked. I could see him in the far left corner of the room with his head down, earphones in and sketching madly. I knocked three times, hard. No answer. He didn't even move. That was probably his idea; shove in a pair of earphones and you hear nothing but the music you choose to isolate yourself with.

Being the persistent fucker I was, I decided to continue knocking for another five minutes flat. My knuckles throbbed painfully where the skin was wearing thin and growing purple already. I didn't care, I wanted him to know I wasn't going anywhere.

The bell rang. I carried on knocking.

It wasn't until I heard approaching footsteps and a clearing of the throat that I stopped, looking briefly over my shoulder.

"Can I help you?" Mrs...whatever-her-name-was asked with one thin black brow arched suspiciously.

"I want to talk to Mr Way." I stated, inspecting my knuckles with my lip between my teeth. They were bleeding.

"I see that...he doesn't have any lessons for the rest of the day now, I doubt he wants to be disturbed, young man."

She was bitchy as hell. "Don't call me young man, I'm not a fucking preschooler." I muttered under my breath. She chose to ignore it. Maybe she wasn't too bad.

"I think that you should probably get to your next class. What do you have?"

"Free period."

That was a blatant lie.

"Okay, well, um," She looked around the hallway awkwardly, "have you tried knocking louder?"

I laughed bitterly, pulling my sleeve over my knuckles. "Nope, hadn't thought of that!" I replied, my words soaked in sarcasm.

She sighed, carrying on down the corridor to her classroom, turning to speak to me before she entered. "He doesn't seem in the best of moods today, I'd leave him be if I were you."

"Fuck off." I mumbled.

* * *

After another half hour of knocking until blood was smeared all over each of my fists, I decided to give up. A part of me wondered if he was even listening to anything or if he just had earphones in to look unapproachable.

I thought we were okay? He said we were "cool". Why was he suddenly acting as though he couldn't give a shit? Fuck it. Fuck everything.

It was 9:20pm and I couldn't stop thinking about it. About _him_. My skin prickled with the urge to get out of the house, get some alcohol and drown my sorrows. I couldn't handle the constant repetition of his voice in my head.

"_You're so fucking special, man!" _

"_Go on. I dare you." _

"_I'm so not thinking straight right now," _

"_You were incredible tonight. I'm really, really fucking proud of you, sweetheart." _

"_You look great."_

The next thing I knew, my fist went through the wall.

I groaned in pain, squeezing my eyes shut as the blood flowed rapidly to my violently throbbing knuckles. They had to be broken by now. What the fuck gives him the right to fuck with my mind like that? Why did he have to make me feel so fucking special and elated like the sun was burning inside my chest and _everything in the world made sense in that one beautiful moment his lips were on mine. _

It wasn't even a kiss. It was nothing. It meant nothing.

_It meant everything to me._

He was a teacher, I was a fucking student. He shouldn't have done that. He crossed a line.

_That line was crossed the second our eyes met at 08:43am on the first day of the semester._

Why did my heart feel like it was breaking when all this was was a stupid fucking crush on a teacher, and for the most part it was as innocent as a rose _but it got burned and suffocated and choked to death by the smoke that filled my lungs when he breathed it passed my lips._

* * *

The next morning I dragged myself up to his room, a whole fucking speech prepared and everything. I felt stupid, but you know what, this was necessary. I wasn't a talking kind of guy, I preferred to listen, but just this once I needed be brave enough to use my own voice and my own words to-

He wasn't there. The lights were off in his room. I tried the handle, locked. _What the fuck. No. NO._

There was a piece of ripped off paper tacked to the door.

"_Dear class,_

_Sorry kids, I won't be in for the rest of the week. Something came up and I can't be in school right now._

_In the meantime, get on with your projects. I left them in the art room opposite to this one. _

_Don't miss me too much,_

_Mr Way/Gerard."_

I felt a sinking feeling in my stomach. What was he doing? Why was he doing this?

I stormed into the opposite classroom with my bandaged fists clenched, a scowl etched onto my face. I saw the pile of sketchbooks on the desk at the front of the room and rooted through them to find my own.

"Hey, teacher's pet, where's your fuck buddy?"

I remained with my back to the guy, feeling the anger vibrating through every bone in my body.

"What the fuck did you just say?" I asked through gritted teeth, my jaw aching with the force.

"Where's Gerard? At home looking after your kids?"

I whirled around so fast the sketchbooks went flying, but I didn't even notice. All I saw, all I felt was my fist colliding with the shattering bones in his nose, the blood dripping down his lips like beautiful acrylic paint. That's another thing Mr Way gave me, the ability to see beauty in the most hideous of situations.

I sprinted out of the classroom after grabbing my book off the floor, only stopping to breathe when I found myself at the abandoned park down the street from my house. How fucking cliché. Sad little punk boy skips school and sits on a kid's swing to reflect on his recent fuck-ups. Wow. Original.

I flipped to my last sketch. It was of him. It was all wrong, the eyes didn't look alive enough, his subtle grin not secretive enough. It didn't do his beauty any justice at all. My focus was pulled to the corner of the page. Oh God, no way, no fucking way. I knew that writing all too well from the letter on his door this morning.

"_As creepy as this is, it's really, really good. _

_I'm flattered. _

_I'll miss you, punk."_

I felt as though my heart was trying to escape from my body its beating was so violently persistent. I was struggling to breathe, my inhales too shaky and choked, my exhales too short. What the fuck did "I'll miss you" mean? Was he leaving? Did he just mean for the rest of the week?

_What is this why is he doing this to me why is he fucking with my head like this?_

My hands were shaking so much that my sketchbook fell to the concrete beneath my feet. Fucking hell this is so fucked up, man. I need to see him, I need to talk to him. I need to get as far away from him as possible and never see his face again.

_I needed to hold him._

_I needed to kiss him. _

_I needed to escape him._

I didn't know I was crying until the skin on my face started to prickle from the salt. I wiped my eyes furiously. I don't cry. I never cry. Why am I crying over this why is he doing this to me what have I done to him that makes him think it's okay to do this to my head and my heart and my whole fucking _being_?

A little girl was coming through the gate, blinking her wide eyes at me curiously. _Oh, perfect, just what I needed._

"Are you okay, sir? You're crying." she reached up with her mittened hand to wipe at my face clumsily, her tongue poking out ever so slightly in concentration. _She looked just like him._

I forced a smile, swallowing down my discomfort. "Thank you, but I'm fine, the wind just made my eyes water."

She didn't buy it. "Don't cry, it's almost Christmas!"

I forgot.

"Oh, yeah, it sure is! Where are your parents?"

"Dad's coming, See!"

_No._

"Bandit, we're going home." He said forcefully, taking her hand and pulling her away. I watched him silently before the words clawed their way up my oesophagus.

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING? WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS?" I probably looked insane, my red-rimmed eyes wild and my hands going numb as they gripped at the chains of the swing. "WHY DIDN'T YOU TELL ME YOU HAD A FAMILY?!"

He stopped in his tracks, saying something to the child before walking over to me. I saw her look at us with uncertainty, the same look he had the other morning when he called me over to his desk.

He looked exhausted. His eyes were emotionless, his skin taking on an almost grey tinge despite the cold winter air. He leaned into me, inches away from my face, staring at me blankly.

"My wife died two years ago. All I have is my daughter, that is my family."

"I...shit, I'm so sorry Mr Way, I didn-"

"Dont. Call. Me. That."

"Mr Way?"

"Yes, just call me Gerard, it makes this whole situation less fucked up than it is."

"Fucked up? Jesus Christ, nothing has happened between us! That's my fucking problem! That's why things feel so wrong right now, because we had the opportunity to make things happen and nothing fucking did!"

"What are you talking about, Frank? Why are you saying this?" he looked like somebody had just stabbed him in the chest, his eyes starting to water and his bottom lip captured between his teeth.

"I want us to be more than this. Please, Gerard, _please_ just admit that that's what this is sup-"

"No. Don't. Don't even speak. Don't say another word, Frank." he paused, eyes boring into mine. I knew he wanted what I wanted. "It can't happen. I don't feel that way about you in the slightest. You're just some kid I teach that makes me feel a little less insane. That's it. I don't need you in that way, and I certainly don't _want _you in that way, so on Monday we are going to spend the last week before Christmas with no overly-kind comments or lengthy conversations, we will act as we are supposed to and that's that."

I wished there weren't waterfalls escaping my eyes, I wished my heart wasn't in pieces. I wished that I had the emotional strength to fight back and tell him he was wrong, but all I could do was hang my head in shame and cry like a fucking baby.

"Goodbye, Frank."

I didn't look up to see him walk away. I didn't look up to see his daughter crying, or him picking her up and kissing her cheek, telling her that I don't matter. I didn't look up to see him turn back and look at me with nothing but heartbreak radiating from his big brown eyes, or the way his hand reached ever so slightly in my direction. I didn't look up to see the way it grasped at the air looking for another to hold, before falling back down hopelessly .


End file.
